


Let Me Be Good To You

by lovelorn (Wintress), Wintress



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Begging, Body Worship, Bondage, Crying, Dacryphilia, Dom/sub, F/M, Female Reader, Forced Orgasm, Gentle dom Jim Root, Good BDSM Etiquette, Impact Play, Jim Root's cabinet of doom, Kink, Overstimulation, Sex Toys, okay no more im gonna spoil the story, sub Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26374390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/lovelorn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/Wintress
Summary: He sighs dramatically and reaches into his pocket. "Anyway, clearly words aren't working. Arms out, eyes shut sugar."That heat in your gut flares to life once more as you obey wordlessly, palms up and arms outstretched just the way he likes. Now it's time for the good shit. Will he flog the soft skin of your forearms? Will he bite and nip his way up before throwing you to the floor? Or - oh god, will he finally cane you?Your mind is still throwing around possibilities when buttery soft leather slots into place over your wrists. Your eyes shoot open before he gives permission, and you're greeted with two things:One, your wrists are bound in a strange cuff, shaped like a figure of eight so one hand rests above the other.Two, Jim's kneeling on the floor in front of you with a shit-eating grin spread across his face."Uh...shouldn't it be me on my knees?" You joke, flexing your hands.Jim tightens the bonds until they're just this side of uncomfortable, and lowers his voice until it's barely a rumble: "Things are gonna be a little different tonight, sugar."Or: Jim Root, the surprise Soft Dom(TM)
Relationships: Jim Root/Original Female Character(s), Jim Root/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Let Me Be Good To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dysphorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/gifts).



> Sorry, I don't do the whole "Y/N" thing, I find it completely takes me out of a story and I struggle to write it. So....let your imagination run wild! 
> 
> Not my fandom, but it IS my beloved dick midas @dysphorie's fave who's running this show with his big daft hands, so enjoy. If you want to see your fave headlining an x reader fic, drop me a comment and I'll see what I can do!
> 
> Oh, and Dys? Take care of yourself and drink some fuckin' water. Love you <3

It's been almost a month.

A month of stress. Of shitty neighbors. Of endless problems with burst pipes and frozen windows and arguments with the building manager. Of ‘Very Bad No Good Days’ that had you falling into bed in the evening, breathing in deeply and letting yourself sink into the mattress on the exhale.

A month since you last saw him.

*

You’re determined to prove you can be good. His instructions are simple enough, or so he thought: to focus on yourself and take care of yourself properly while he finishes a mini-tour. God, you think as the final passenger boards the train and the doors slam shut, Jim is gonna be fucking _furious_ when he finds out that you’ve disobeyed him. Not that you mean to; your bratty tendencies didn’t even come into it this time. You’ve just been so caught up in daily life, struggling through this pandemic and medication changes to boot, and focusing on self care has fallen slightly to the wayside. You grimace as you try to retie your messy bun and feel it snagging on tugs and snarls in your thick hair. He’s going to read you the riot act… you’ve waited nearly a month, but the final six stops on the train journey to his apartment feels like eons.

*

After the brakes squeal and the train judders to a stop you’re carried along with the throng of commuters onto the platform and out of the piss-stenched station. You’re not focusing on where your feet are taking you, trying to push past the bone deep ache in your hips and knees that have had you struggling to move this week, when a firm grip clenches around your upper arm and yanks you out of the crowd. Yelping, you whirl to throw a punch at your would-be attacker when your other wrist is held fast in an enormous hand.

“That’s no way to say hello, is it?” Jim’s smirk crinkles his eyes, and even the sight of him bundled up in his soft grey hoodie and buttery leather jacket melts some of the tension you’ve had wound round your spine.

“Jim!” Your huge smile is hidden by the buttery leather of his jacket as he pulls you into a long, tight hug. Your voice is muffled when you say, “Missed you so much, Peach.”

“Missed you too sugar. Lemme get a look at you, I can’t believe it’s been a whole month!” He holds you out at arms length and his smile falters as he takes in your appearance. You cringe, knowing he can see how your chronic pain has tightened the skin around your eyes, how pale and wan your cheeks are from your fucked sleeping schedule. He lifts your hood up to peek at your hair and raises an eyebrow.

“I’m thinking I should have picked you up from your place,” He admits. His hand falls, long fingers trailing down the side of your jaw to tilt your chin up to face him fully as he draws closer. “Someone’s not been following orders.”

*

The full body shiver and the low heat that follows stay coiled in your gut the whole car journey to his place. How he can he reduce you to a puddle with so little words? And in public, no less? Anyone could have listened in, could have spotted the thin circlet of hematite around the base of your throat and deduced what you two were to one another; the very thought perks up the little exhibitionist streak in you, and you wriggle in your seat. Jim catches your movement, and turns the radio down.

“You taken your pain meds today?” He asks softly, eyes not leaving the road. You nod and hum the affirmative, and he shoots you a look. “Is that how you answer when I ask you a question?” His voice doesn’t change, but you’ve both been doing this long enough that it doesn’t have to.

You bite back a smile; you really want to be good. “Yes sir.” He nods his head, adjusting his grip on the wheel as he faces the road.

“And your other meds, you’ve been takin’ them regularly?”

“Yes sir.”

“Are you managing okay with the new ones?” His voice softens slightly, and you melt inside. How he can be so direct and open has always both boggled your mind and made you want to strive to be the same. Still, part of you is reluctant to show weakness, to worry him. You don’t feel worth his attention sometimes, and your cheeks bloom pink with shame. There’s a beat of silence where the only sound is the window wipers squeaking against the rainfall.

“...Yes sir.”

“Answer me again, but be honest with me this time.” He warns. You clear your throat, avoiding looking at him.

“Kind of. The side effects suck.”

“Go on,” He prompts softly. He pulls into his drive, rain bouncing off his open garage door. He parks, kills the engine, and twists in his seat to give you his full attention. Your knee grows hot under his large palm when he rests his hand on you. “It’s alright.”

You can’t look at him. You just can’t. instead you focus on the garage light ahead, where it glints off the skeleton of his latest bike project. “I - I can’t really sleep. When I do the dreams are crazy. Vivid. Hard to tell they’re not real. They make me feel nauseous.”

“So that means you’ve not been eating properly either.” Not a question. You shake your head, 

“Sorry.” You mutter. He taps your knee before taking your hand, and you finally look into his eyes. They’re crinkled in a frown - not disappointment, you’re relieved to see. Concern.

“I…” He falters. It’s a rare thing to see him lost for words. He shakes his head, a lock of hair catching on his glasses. He cracks a smile and squeezes your hand. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?”

*

Jim makes you pasta and chicken, with slices of oddly-shaped garlic bread (“I tried baking on tour,” he grins, abashed) and a cold bottle of beer. He watches you from the other side of the table as you both catch up. About his escapades on tour, the new balletcise classes you’d started, how his bike renovations were going, your nightmare neighbors (“Can you believe it? Actual sat on the bench in the middle of the day, just eating a whole rotisserie chicken. Then he licked the tub of mayonaisse clean!”) You go to get another beer when he presses you back down in the dining chair with both hands on your shoulders. He grips them firmly for a moment before slowly kneading his thumbs and fingers across the knots of muscle he finds there. Your breath catches, your eyes close.

“No more tonight,” He says brightly. “Need you clear headed, okay?”

“Yes sir.” You feel bubbly, light, in anticipation. That tone...to anyone else, it sounds casual, as though he's just making conversation. You know better.

Neither of you see the genuine smiles stretching the others lips.

*

You’ve been soaking in Jim’s bath for the past half hour. Normally you'd take a shower before playing out of courtesy, unless he specifically asked you not to. But Jim had run you a bath and said nothing about the change in routine. He had checked the temperature, perched on the edge of the massive tub and folded his arms and grinned.

"Strip, please." There's no demand in it. No order, no force. The skin behind your knees tingle with the little thrill that goes through you all the same; you had complied, of course, and any of your usual insecurities shed with each item of clothing that dropped to the floor.

That all feels like hours ago, even though it couldn't have been more than thirty minutes. The water is milky and smells like oats and sweet rose with the oils he poured in for you. Steam curls in lazy tendrils from where your knee breaks the surface, propped against the gilded handle on the side. A candle gutters and flickers before steadying like the others surrounding it on the window sill, casting the room in a warm dark glow. Jim’s perched behind you on a tiny stool that looks ridiculous under his huge frame - his knees are practically at his shoulders, and between his long legs he’s steadily working thick conditioning treatment through your hair. Pianist’s fingers gently detangle the depression knots, the inevitable snarls in your thick locks, smoothing it back from your forehead; by the time he’s got your hair sleek and tangle-free, he delves into the roots of your hair, massaging your scalp firmly with the pads of his fingers. It sends tingles and sparks down your spine. The conditioner smells of violets and makes your hair feel like silk, and the heady combination of his rhythmic ministrations with the warmth of the bath has you almost melting in the deep water. 

Almost.

You’re still carrying the tensions of your day to day life in an iron bar down your back; a Sword of Damocles that’s always present, unable to fully unsheath and disappear. And as you drift, that little part of yourself that has been louder recently begins to pipe up.

_you don’t deserve this he’s too good for you he’s so attractive he’s such a good person and you’re well you’re you it doesn’t matter how beautiful he tells you that you are you know he’s just saying it for a quick fuck you’re worthless he knows it you know it and it won’t be long until he gets bored of you and moves onto someone worth his time someone prettier richer funnier more talented you’re fucking nothing you’re -_

You don’t notice Jim has stopped massaging your head until his voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Babe, stop thinking.” His voice is low, quiet. He rests his hands on your head and leans forward, tipping your face back until you’re looking at him upside down. You open your mouth to protest and of course, he can predict exactly what you’re going to say. He palms your mouth shut and leans closer, keeping eye contact. “Ah-ah, not a word. Now, listen to me. We’re both here because we want to be. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, okay? I wanna take care of you. Tonight’s all about you. It’s the least you deserve. And you’re gonna let me because you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

The words send a shudder of heat down your core despite the cooling milky water. He knows you want to be good for him. And you know how much he loves looking after you; fulfilling your needs fulfills his. And yet…

He drops down lower, his nose brushing yours. “Aren’t you, baby?”

“Yes sir.” You whisper, letting a little smile break through. He grins back, kisses your forehead for a long moment, before sitting back and gently pushing you into a sitting position. 

“That’s my girl. Now wash up, I’ll meet you in the bedroom when you’re ready.” 

You wait for a few seconds after he’s gone, eyes still shut and a dreamy smile softening your face as his words override the nasty voice in your head.

_That’s my girl._

*

The bedroom is wide, open; familiar. A large four poster bed where you’ve spent many a night shouting his name is piled high with cushions that normally get swept off the side, and has numerous fluffy warm jewel toned comforters draped across it. The heavy wooden trunk at the end of the bed is shut, and the matching armoire next to the tall bay windows is flung wide open as Jim roots around inside. There’s soft music playing from somewhere; it’s Jim’s home, of _course_ there’s music, and tonight it’s soft slow 90’s rock. You recognise the strains of Bush’s ‘Glycerine’ just barely audible above the sound of Jim humming along, and rather than disturb him you adjust your silken robe and silently perch on the trunk to listen. He so rarely sings, and you love his voice.

He turns around with a big velvet runner bundled up in his arms and raises his eyebrows. He pauses, drinking in your appearance. He loves you like this; fresh, soft, relaxed. He can make you even more relaxed, he thinks to himself: melt you down until you’re putty in his hands. He can’t fucking wait.

“That was quick,” He says to cover his embarrassment at being caught out singing, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Sorry Peach, you seemed like you were enjoying yourself.” You tease lightly, clasping your hands over your knee. “Didn’t wanna interrupt.”

“Hmm. You’ll pay for that later, hope you realise that.” Jim says smoothly. He tries to hide the light blush that dusts his cheeks at the nickname by kicking the armoire shut behind him, but you know he loves it really. He crosses the wide room in a few strides of those long denim-clad legs, and nudges your thigh with his knee. “Up, I’ll need this.” As soon as you stand he spreads the velvet across the top of the trunk, and you don’t notice the unsubtle up-and-down he gives you. “Uh… little over-dressed, aren’t we?”

“Christ, Jim - I didn’t even know you had half this stuff!” Your eyes widen at the array of toys and equipement on the trunk: clamps, butt plugs, lengths upon lengths of cotton rope, dildos of varying sizes and thicknesses and colours and materials, strips of silk and plether, a few rolls of unassuming black shiny tape, and a particularly vicious-looking little spiky device on the end of a long, slim metal handle. “Is that a Wartenburg wheel?!”

Jim stops in front of you to block your view, with a slightly furrowed brow and a bitten back smirk. “You’ll find out.”

“I hope so.” You shoot back, biting your lip. He tilts his chin up, slowly trails his finger down the shoulder seam of your thin robe. You twist your head to watch its progress; down your shoulder, ghosting the curve of your full breast, across your stomach where your muscles jump and he taps the sash holding the robe closed. 

“I don’t remember telling you to come out with this on.” His voice is light, betraying none of the interest darkening his pupils. He taps the knotted sash again and catches your eye. “Off, please.”

You have an idea where this is going - well, fuck, where you hope it’s going anyway. You hold his gaze as you untie it and the robe drops to the ground in a whisper of black silk, baring your body to him. You follow the material to the ground, sinking to your knees. You can feel your mouth watering in anticipation of the weight of his thick cock on your tongue, and you lean forward to nose at the crotch of his jeans and -

“Uh-uh. Up.”

You look up, blinking in confusion. “What?” Despite the soft smile that curls the corners of his lips, despite the kind crinkles of his eyes, despite the open body language that promises nothing bad is coming, cold rejection starts to trickle through your gut like a melting icicle. 

_see he doesn’t want you he’s gonna kick you out he can’t be fucked dealing with your bullshit why are you so needy all the time you’re just a desperate slut_

Jim takes your hand in his massive mitt and helps you to your feet, then holds your wrists together as your shoulders bunch. You can practically feel the tiny amount of confidence this evening had instilled trickle through the soles of your feet.

“No, no, don’t bother curling up and hiding. I told you tonight’s gonna be all about you. And do I ever go back on my word?”

“No,” You mumble. He tuts and you cringe a little, thinking how you’ve just fucked up again. “No, sir.”

“Baby. Look at me.” Jim waits until you lift your head properly, then brings your hands to his lips to press a firm kiss to your knuckles. His scruffy beard tickles your skin, spreading warmth up your arm. His voice is lower, raspier when he speaks again, and his full lower lip whispers against your hands: “Tonight. Is about. _You_ . I love you on your knees, you know that. Believe me, remembering what you look like choking on my dick has gotten me through _more_ than a few rough nights on tour.” 

Your cheeks colour and you feel a tell tale jerk of lust between your thighs. “You and me both,” You chuckle softly. Jim smiles back and links his fingers with yours, pulling you closer until he towers above you. “I just…” You falter, again hyper-aware of seeming needy. He squeezes your fingers with his in silent encouragement. You take a quiet breath to find your words. But how do you explain this?

He knows submission gets you off. Hell, you wouldn't have fallen into this arrangement if he didn't know - a chance introduction between friends, pure luck, a hell of a lot of mutual attraction, and a probable planetary alignment later has seen you both grow from 'occasional play partners' to 'needing more than just one another's services' in the span of a few short years. You know he enjoys it rough. You know he enjoys elaborate rope ties and hauling you around like you're nothing more than a fuck toy. You know he loves the cries of pain and pleasure you make when he uses his latest torture devices on you. And above all this... you know he says what he means and he means what he says. And while you struggle sometimes to put things into words, deal in the abstract and in hints and hope the other person can spell it out for you, now is not the time for meekness. It's not the time to hide and be timid. Now is the time to take a leaf from Jim's book, and just fuckin' say what needs to be said.

Although 'I think I'm falling for you' isn't something you're _quite_ ready to put out into the universe just yet - planetary alignments or not.

“I… It's been a bad month.” You almost add 'without you here', and judging by the twist of his mouth Jim can tell you're holding back a little; he allows it, though. "I need something to focus on. Some help to just let go. Forget about how shitty things are right now."

“Mmhmm.” You shiver slightly at the rumble in his tone, and he draws his arms around your waist to envelope you in his warmth. He says nothing more, prompting you to elaborate.

“And - and I feel bad because you're always so _good_ to me. I just wanna return the favour. I want to do this for you." You're beginning to feel raw, vulnerable - and not on the good way that your kink sessions usually leave you. Like an exposed nerve. Why did you always have to be so...so insecure?! You're sick of feeling this way, of needing constant validation and christ, how was he not sick of you yet? Maybe this was it, a last goodbye before he dumped you and found a sub who wouldn't catch feelings or need so much fucking attention all the time -

"What you really mean is, you want something to get lost in. You wanna lose yourself by focusing on someone else for a while. Focus on me and my wants and needs, and submitting to mine makes you forget yours for a little while." Jim says simply. As though he's not standing before you with a plethora of sex toys at his back, with you bare arsed and having your knuckles kissed between each sentence. You shake your head a little, frowning, taken aback.

"I..."

"What, like I haven't noticed?" He smiles. It's not mean. He's stating facts, in that way of his. He always does this, keeps you on your toes; he'll dance around something, umm and ahh until his brain seems to figure out what it's trying to say, and he'll drop the blunt truth of shit like a bomb, cutting to the core of a matter. You're struck - not for the first time, mind you - that Jim is one of the few people who really sees you. You're still figuring out if that's a good or a bad thing.

He sighs dramatically and reaches into his pocket. "Anyway, clearly words aren't working. Arms out, eyes shut sugar."

That heat in your gut flares to life once more as you obey wordlessly, palms up and arms outstretched just the way he likes. Now it's time for the good shit. Will he flog the soft skin of your forearms? Will he bite and nip his way up before throwing you to the floor? Or - oh god, will he finally cane you?

Your mind is still throwing around possibilities when buttery soft leather slots into place over your wrists. Your eyes shoot open before he gives permission, and you're greeted with two things: 

One, your wrists are bound in a strange cuff, shaped like a figure of eight so one hand rests above the other.

Two, Jim's kneeling on the floor in front of you with a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Uh...shouldn't it be me on my knees?" You joke, flexing your hands. 

Jim tightens the bonds until they're just this side of uncomfortable, and lowers his voice until it's barely a rumble: "Things are gonna be a little different tonight, sugar."

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
